Changeling
by LuisaRose
Summary: Mara has forgotten everything that she ever knew - including her true identity. But when she meets Jack, things begin to change. Fairy and human kingdoms collide and the two must work together to ensure the survival of both. Can a changeling and a human ever find love when both of their worlds are determined to keep them apart?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I'm back! Now, just to warn you: this is just a taster of the story I've currently got bubbling in the back of my mind, but I can't make promises as to when and how often I'll update. I just wanted to make sure people knew I hadn't given up, and there was a new story in the works. I'll update as soon as I know more about the plot of this one. **

**It's based on - or perhaps inspired by would be a better choice of words - Irish folk and fairytales, but it's mainly my own ideas, so if I wildly diverge from Irish tradition it's because I'm not following it. **

**Please let me know what you think of this beginning! **

**EmLuRo xxx**

* * *

_Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly,_

_And as thy mortal mother nearly._

-_The Fairy Nurse, _Edward Walsh

* * *

_Grace_

My daughter is a fool.

She wasn't always a fool, but she became one when she grew up, despite my best efforts, and the mess we're in now is due to her foolishness.

I became a mother very late in life. My husband and I were childless for many years, and though every day we prayed for a son or daughter, our prayers remained unanswered until I was almost past child-bearing age. We were overjoyed, and my most cherished memory is of my husband's face when he held his daughter, Bridget, in his arms for the very first time. I remember how his eyes lit up and the awe-filled smile with which he regarded her tiny form. She was a beautiful babe, with golden curls and blue eyes. We loved her dearly.

That was before I knew she would grow up to be a fool.

My husband died when Bridget was only three. She does not remember him, but I have never forgotten him. She grew up to be a good, obedient child, and we were happy despite our loss. We always had good fortune on our farm; our cows grew fat and gave rich milk, our chickens laid daily, our sheep produced fine wool that we sold for good money at the market. I knew why we had such good luck. My own mother had taught me the ways of the Good People. I knew to leave milk on the doorstep for them, and not to curse their name; I knew to shout before I threw any water away, and I knew that the cold iron is the only thing that the fairies cannot touch. The Little People and I lived in harmony, and as a result they did not harm us. Some people in the village called me a witch. They said that I knew too much. But that was not true. I only knew what any other good housewife should know.

I used to tell Bridget stories about the Good People, so that she would know what they were like and learn what my mother had taught me. I told her about the man who had sneezed three times without anyone calling a blessing on him, and how the fairies had taken him away. I told her how at certain nights of the year the fairies grow even wilder than before, and their strange, untamed revels can ensnare unwary travellers. I told her of those who had eaten of the food of the Good People, and woken as if from a dream the following morning – only they had been asleep for a hundred years. I told her all the stories and more, and she listened carefully. We had a good life, Bridget and I. We were content.

But then she grew up and went to school. I did not want her to go. I had never gone to school, and I did not think she needed to go. But there were less and less people who agreed with me in the village, and the schoolteacher told me that it was compulsory for Bridget to attend lessons. I let her go, begrudgingly. I knew what they would teach her, and I was right.

She stopped believing in my tales. She thought of them as nothing but words, stories for a child. Her mind was occupied with science, with the material plane of the world. Her generation was a rational one, who believed in neither God nor the fairies. And she grew up to be a fool. My word was no longer law to her. She saw me as weak-minded, simple. She humoured me by pretending to agree with me, but disobeyed me constantly. As a result, despite my best efforts, the farm began to fail. Bridget was twenty now and I was near sixty. My sight was failing and though I still performed hard labour every day on the farm along with the handful of workers we had, my memory was not perfect. Sometimes I would forget to put the milk out, and Bridget would not do it. I remembered all the charms that would shield me from harm, but Bridget thought them only nonsense and did not say them. She would ignore me when I told her that the cows were sick because the Good People were offended.

Our happy life degenerated. We became poor, and things were difficult. It was then that the boy turned up.

He was a soldier. David? Daniel? Yes, that was it, Daniel. His regiment had come to the village for a few days only, I cannot remember why. But I remember him well enough. He was handsome, that one, that was for sure. Bonny grey eyes and a winning smile, with black locks and a way about him that charmed the heart right out of my poor foolish Bridget. She fell in love with him so deeply that I was afraid. I did not trust him. He was slippery, vague. But Bridget did not see it. She only saw the handsome façade and heard his empty promises. He swore to marry her when he next came with the regiment. "Wait a year," he told her. "I will be back within a year."

Then he left, and it seemed as if her heart would break, my poor darling daughter. I was angry with him for hurting her, and I was angrier still when I discovered that she was with child.

"How can we support a babe?" I shouted at her. "We have no money! You are truly a foolish girl. You have thrown your life away."

She did not care, as long as he came back. But a year passed with no sign of him. Bridget's babe was born on a May morning, and as soon as I saw her my heart was enslaved. She was the most beautiful child I had ever seen, far more beautiful than her mother had been. She had blonde hair and ivory skin like Bridget, but her father's grey eyes looking out of that sweet little face. She would smile up at us even when she was only a few weeks old, as if she knew how much we loved her. We named her Mara.

It was a few months later that I began to suspect that Bridget was not looking after Mara as well as she should be. She looked thin and pale, and would not speak unless she had to. I knew that she was waiting for her soldier to return, and I knew that we would hear nothing of him. Sure enough, the days passed, and though Mara grew more beautiful every week, her mother lapsed into despondency. One day I found that she had left the cradle unguarded, without even an iron knife or a pair of scissors for protection, while she wandered down to the river to pick flowers. I confronted her when she came home, holding the babe safe in my arms.

"Don't you know better than to leave the child alone out there? The fairies will be having her if you are not more careful. I taught you better than this."

"Fairies do not exist, mother," she says in that dreamy voice of hers. I wanted to shake her, to make her see.

"Do not say that! They will hear you!" But she would not listen. I vowed to watch the child more carefully, and for a while I succeeded. But one day, I came home from the market, where I had been trying to sell the inferior wool that was all we had, to an empty house.

"Bridget!" I called, trying to quell the fear that rose in my heart and strangled me. "Bridget?" She was nowhere to be found. I ran out into the garden, and sure enough the baby's cradle was there, beneath the cherry tree. I ran to it, praying desperately that I was not too late.

But Mara was not in the cradle.

The babe that lay there resembled her a little, tis true. But it was scrawny, and red, and ugly, and its eyes were greener than the grass beneath my feet. It squalled when it saw me, and it would not stop its crying until it was fed. I knew that the fairies had taken my beautiful Mara away, and left a changeling in her place.

The Good People do not have children the way we do. Their brethren are born out of moonshine and clover, or conceived when the first frost gently touches the leaves on the trees; and they are born fully adult, fully formed. The fairies have a fascination with human children. They yearn for someone to love, and so whenever they can they steal the most beautiful babies they can find, and take them for themselves.

I knew that it would be a miracle if I ever saw Mara again.

* * *

_We play all day long, and then at night we dance. We dance for so long that our shoes become nothing but tatters. But our feet are never harmed._

_My guardians watch me, but they smile when they see the way I toss my long hair and singing with my sweetest voice. For I can sing beautifully. Out of all the fairies my voice is the one that can hush all those who are chattering and laughing._

_My skin is white, and my hair is ash-grey, like the colour of my eyes. That is why they call me Liath. I have other names: I am daughter-of-gossamer, sister-of-cobweb, moonbeam-on-the-water, lighter-than-thistledown, daughter-of-twilight, shadow-sister. With my sisters I flit in and out of the shadows, half-seen; we own the trees and fields and rivers._

_Sometimes we see them, the heavy-steppers, the cobweb-breakers. They hear our laughter and their skin turns pale. Sometimes we like to mock them, for they cannot catch us, they cannot follow where we lead._

_They would like to be one of us. Sometimes they will stumble into one of our dances, and we shout and laugh: their dancing is not like ours. And yet, every once in a while – they can play music that rivals even ours, even our lilting fairy strains. And then we welcome them, but they do not often stay._

_I want for nothing. I have the sweet morning dew to drink, and the honey-nectar from the flowers; nuts and berries feed me, and the enchanted food of the fairies. We bathe together in the secret pools in the heart of the forest; we dance under the waterfalls. My bed is a cradle of soft, sweet-smelling ferns, and the tree boughs overhead whisper me to sleep – though I do not sleep very much. My sisters sleep rarely, if at all, and they tease me for my need to close my eyes and slumber. But then I sing for them, and they forget their laughter and listen._

_We roam far, my sisters and I. They are fleet of foot: calling echoes to each other, we fly through the trees, chasing sun-dappled streams or listening to the birds. We know all the mysteries of the forest. We know what the mother deer whispers to her child when he is born. We know the language of the buttercups. We know how to make the hedgehog uncurl. We know how to listen to the wind and learn its secrets._

_Then night falls and we fly home again to dance and make merry: for we are a merry folk._

_My guardians do not like me to fly too far. I am daughter to the Queen of fairies, and she yearns for my company. But I am too airy to be contained. My mother is displeased, but she forgets when I sing._

_Everyone forgets when I sing._

_I sit on the Queen's lap, and she cradles me to sleep. Sometimes I dream, though fairies do not dream. The dreams hurt. In them, I am very small: much smaller than I am now. My fingers above me are like pink stars, clenching and unclenching. There is whiteness around me, and then a face bends over me. She is a heavy-stepper, but she looks at me the way my mother looks at me._

_When I wake from the dreams, there is a pain within me, and sometimes it is so bad that it blinds me and all I can see is shadows. Then my mother sings to me until the brightness returns and I can see her face._

_The sun rises and sets without meaning. Time does not exist for us daughters of air. The leaves in the forest grow and fall and grow again, but we do not change._


	2. Chapter 2

"Where's Jack then?"

"Away dreaming with the fairies, he is."

"Jack!"

Jack started and blinked, and the room swam into focus around him. It was dark, lit only by a fire in the hearth and candles on the tables; the faces of his friends were shadowed as they turned towards him with smiles and nods. "Wake up, Jacky-boy. 'Tis your turn."

"Ahh," groaned Jack when he'd seen the cards on the table. "You've got me bad, Matt. That's a nasty trick to play."

Matt shrugged comfortably, his conscience unpricked. Jack had won enough pints of beer from him in the past that having a lucky hand was well warranted. With a sigh, Jack tossed down his best card and returned to his daydream.

It was less of a daydream and more of an attack of anxiety. Lately his thoughts had never been far away from the catastrophe happening at home. And it_ was_ a catastrophe: or at least it seemed so to Jack and his mother, who had so very little to live on and depended so heavily on their little garden.

He had first noticed the signs a week or so ago. It was summer and the carrots should have been ready to pick, but when he'd gone out with a basket, the first one he'd pulled up had been a very odd whitish-grey colour, and the smell that reached his nose almost made him retch. Hastily he'd chucked the disgusting object away, and pulled up the next carrot. To his astonishment, it was exactly the same. In growing horror, he went down the row of green leaves – so promising, so lush-looking – and found that only ten or eleven carrots, out of an entire crop, had escaped the holocaust. But what on earth could have affected them? There was no sign of insects, and if it was a disease it was one he'd never seen before. Gingerly, he poked at the pile of horrible white vegetables, and repressed a shudder. He knew, very well, how much of a blow this was to his and his mothers' livelihood. Carrots and potatoes were the main backbone of their produce stall throughout the year – and this time there were barely enough for themselves to eat, let alone to sell.

And it wasn't just the carrots that had succumbed to this mysterious disease, he discovered over the following few days. Other plants that had previously seemed perfectly healthy had sprouted random spots of mould and decay, or had developed odd growths reminiscent of galls. Panic began to overwhelm Jack, and though he had hidden the gravity of the situation from his mother he began to think that it was time to tell the truth.

At the moment the problem was not as pressing as it could have been; this spring had been a good one, because an uncle related to Jack and his mother by law had died and left them a small sum of money. Small it may have seemed to the rich man, but it had served to greatly lessen the desperation of the little family. All too soon, however, the money had shown signs of running low, and so Jack worried.

He was a sturdy, practical boy, well-liked by the other village lads and respected for his sensible and responsible attitude. His devotion to his mother, Anne, who suffered from a condition that left her capable of movement only with great difficulty, could have been a motive to taunt him; but somehow Jack was rarely mocked. Something about the honesty with which he met questions about himself, or perhaps it was just the knowledge that he had a good pair of fists on him, made prospective teases speedily rethink their approach.

Jack, somewhat to his surprise, also had a loyal following of girls in the little village. He knew himself to be only average-looking, with light brown hair and a snub nose, and so the way girls seemed to be always around him never failed to amaze him. What he never could see, and would have ceased to be charming if he had been able to, was the power of his eyes. He had strangely vivid blue-green eyes, and when he lifted his long lashes and fixed his gaze on a girl, it never failed to played havoc with her heart. True, there was the fact that was just a genuinely nice lad; he never joined in with the rough talk of the other boys, and you could always count on him to help you out, no matter your problem. But it was mainly his eyes that drew the attention of village belles.

One such girl was Aileen, undisputedly the prettiest girl of them all. She had lately taken to inviting Jack on long walks down by the river, and being absurdly possessive of him in company. Jack, while vaguely aware that these attentions were not unpleasant, did not attach much importance to her company; to him she was just another friend. He had more on his mind than a pretty girl.

His thoughts had returned once more to the problem of the carrots, and he sighed again and propped his chin on his hand. Aileen, who had as usual managed to wheedle her way into the boys' game of cards (she owed much to a beautiful face and a smile impossible to cross), glanced at him and then scowled when she failed to attract his attention. Jack _should_ look at her – not into the fire. She tossed the curly end of her yellow braid over her shoulder and tried again.

"Jack, you're miles away. Come back," she said sweetly.

"Sorry," said Jack, starting and shaking his head to clear the dark thoughts. "What's wrong, Aileen?"

"Well, I was just thinking that it's getting late and I might go home soon," she answered, to a chorus of groans from the boys, who knew that she'd requisition Jack to go with her. Sure enough, ignoring their moans, she applied to him: "Would you escort me home? It's just a step, and I'd be so glad of some company now that it's growing dark."

He gave her his ready smile, not a whit bothered by her request. He didn't mind leaving the game early; in fact her departure would give him an excuse to go home early and think over his problems. "Of course. I'll be seeing you tomorrow, boys."

"Ah, stay a bit!"

"C'mon, lad!"

"The game's not even half done!"

"John can play for me," laughed Jack, pushing his cards over to where one of the quieter members of their group was sitting with his drink. "Sleep tight," he added teasingly over his shoulder as Aileen daintily stepped through the door ahead of him. His friends waved at him, or made rude gestures in the case of one or two.

It was much lighter outside the pub, despite how late it was; the sky was clear – so far, the summer weather had been flawless – and though the sun had set, it was still a shade of blue-violet gradually darkening over in the east. Aileen, who had decided that her best look was girlish high spirits, skipped along ahead of Jack as he walked at his customary steady pace and occasionally twirled round so that her long full skirt flared out. (Her ankles were one of her best features; something of which she was perfectly well aware.)

"Isn't the day gorgeous at this time?" she chattered. "Only the blackbirds singing away, and everything else all peaceful. And it's so nice to be warm even at this late hour." To illustrate her words, she stretched out her arms and lifted her face to the sky. "And smell the honeysuckle!" She drew in a rapturous breath. "So lovely."

"Yes," said Jack, privately amused at her emotion. It was one he shared in; he loved the world around him and particularly on a summer evening, but this was the first time Aileen had shown any sign of interest in anything other than gossip or fashion. He wondered how long it would last, and sure enough it was only a few moments later that she fell into step beside him and began to impart various stories.

"Guess what? Sian and Nathan are to announce their engagement on Sunday at Mass," she told him, hoping to move his mind onto the pleasurable topic of love and marriage. He gave her a sunny smile, clearly pleased with the news.

"That's great. Nat's been planning to ask her for ages. I hope they'll be happy, God bless them."

"She'll make a beautiful bride," Aileen agreed, giving him a sidelong glance from underneath long golden lashes. When no gallant compliment about her own beauty was forthcoming, she sighed and continued. "She's putting off the wedding till winter, though, because she says she saw a white spirit in the forest last Friday, and everyone knows that means six months of bad d-decisions." She stammered to a halt, remembering too late that Jack did not like such talk. His usual smile was gone, and his cheerful open face had darkened to a frown.

"That's rubbish and superstition," he growled. "You know I don't believe in such things."

"But she says she saw _something_, Jack. You can't deny that," argued Aileen, who had a healthy respect for 'such things' and would have refused to go into the said forest for a million pieces of silver.

"I most certainly can," he countered swiftly. "There's no such thing as spirits and fairies and the Good People. It's all a load of myth and legend and hearsay."

Aileen hastily made the sign against the evil eye behind his back where he couldn't see, in case his blatant disrespect caused any bad fortune to her. "I suppose so," she said dutifully, trying to strike a note that wasn't disagreement but didn't bind her to one opinion.

"Good," he said firmly. Then, sensing her confusion, he changed the subject. "How are your sisters?" One of Jack's greatest sorrows was that he had no siblings. He had had no lack of playmates as a child, but he'd mourned the companionship of a brother or sister, and later he wished for younger siblings to look after. He was good friends with most of the children in the village, and he rather liked Aileen's cheeky little sisters.

"Fine. Elisa is starting school in the autumn."

"Already? It seems like only yesterday that she was learning to walk." He grinned at the memory of the chubby child trying to stand only to fall back onto her backside.

"I know; they grow up too quickly. And Anne is nearly four now."

"What about the baby?"

"She's fine too. She can nearly say my name now; she calls me Leen." She laughed, and Jack thought how much more this genuine happiness suited her than the forced attitude she so often put on for him. It was a shame that she wasn't more comfortable in her own skin, as he was. With Jack, what you saw was what you got.

They passed the rest of the walk pleasantly enough talking about Aileen's family, and when they reached her home he wished her a good night and waved until she'd closed the door behind her. Somehow his heart felt lighter than before, despite his worries about the carrot crop. It was good to laugh and talk with a friend.

He made his way back to his own cottage, away at the end of the village, whistling as he went.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack lifted the latch carefully and edged the heavy wooden door open slowly, trying to keep noise to a minimum. The cottage was dark, though he'd seen a glow of coals through the window, and he guessed that his mother had gone to bed. Not wanting to disturb her, he crept through the kitchen and into the back room, from which the stairs to his room led.

"Jack," said a voice softly, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Mother!" He spun round. She was sitting in the rocking chair he'd made her three years ago, wrapped up warm in a blanket by the dying fire. He came out of the shadows to stoop and hug her gently. "I didn't realise you would be awake still."

"I was worried," she admitted, smiling up at her tall son. He was everything to her, and had been ever since her husband had died. "And I couldn't sleep."

"Have your pains come back?" he asked, instantly concerned. "You've been taking the powders Dr Harcomb prescribed, haven't you?"

"Oh, you worry too much, Jack," she chided him. "I'm fine. Did you have a nice time with your friends?"

"Yes, very nice. I won two games, and probably would have lost the third if Aileen hadn't dragged me out of it." As he spoke, he was pulling forward the little footstool so that he could sit by his mother and look up at her.

"Aileen?" she answered, her voice suddenly a few degrees colder. "The Byrd girl?"

"That's the one. She asked me to walk her home, and I… What is it?"

"Nothing, dear." She stroked his brown hair with a smile and listened to him as he told her more about his evening, but her mind kept wandering. She didn't like the way that girl was clinging to her Jack. It had become more noticeable recently, and while she was almost certain that Jack was more or less unaware of the whole thing, she was also certain that nothing on earth would make Aileen stop in her pursuit of something she wanted. _Just like her mother, more than twenty years ago_.

She knew that she was being selfish. Jack had to marry some time. But she'd always put the thought off, relegated it to the 'we'll-cross-that-bridge-when-we-come-to-it' pile. Now it was becoming a serious possibility, she couldn't quell her panic. What if he decided to marry Aileen? He would provide for her, she was sure of that; Jack was a good boy. But Aileen was unlikely to want a crippled woman in the house who needed constant attention. What if Jack left home, and hired a nursemaid to look after her? She couldn't bear that; she needed to be with her son.

She made a restless movement and he paused in his flow of talk. "Are you uncomfortable? Do you want another cushion?"

"No, no, dear," she said soothingly. How she loved her good, caring Jack. He would make a girl a wonderful husband some day.

But not, reiterated that stubborn voice in her head, to Aileen Byrd.

* * *

Jack woke early the next morning, as was his habit. He got the morning chores done, casting a loving eye on his still sleeping mother as he washed the floor, started the fire, and so on. She slept so little that it was a gift when she did; he knew that despite her protestations to the contrary, she was in pain most of the time, and sleep provided a much-needed respite.

Her illness had begun years ago, dating from the still-birth of his older sister, Martha. Anne had caught an infection of some kind during the difficult birth, sparking a dormant genetic condition that, it seemed, had been passed down through her family for generations. It was regressive, and throughout Jack's life she had deteriorated to the point where it now caused her intense pain just to move. Recently, most of her days were spent out in the garden, where Jack would carry her to a comfortable bench, employed with a bit of knitting or crocheting which was all she could do. She knew perfectly well that she did not have much longer to live, but she was happy in Jack's company and content with her poor lot. Pain and difficulty had beautified her spirit, rather than embittering it, and she was rarely ungrateful or sharp. Only when it came to the thought of Jack's marriage and inevitable departure from her side was she inconsolable. But this she had kept to herself, and her son knew nothing of it.

Had he known of the thoughts that often kept her awake at night, he would have ridiculed them. Of course he would never leave her. Wasn't he her son? Didn't he love her? But at the moment his mind was occupied with something else altogether – this problem with the garden.

As usual, he gathered what he could from their sizeable garden – expanded slowly over the course of many hard years – to take to the stall in the market where he sold their fruit and vegetables. Generally there was a lot, but today, as in the past few days, there was a noticeable decrease in produce. And, he noted with concern, those that were not blighted were smaller and less desirable than healthy fruit would have been.

Still wavering between telling his mother and not wanting to worry her, he made breakfast for the two of them: a simple porridge of oats and watered down milk, with a handful of their own dried berries to sweeten it. Once Anne had woken up, he made sure that she had eaten and then carried her out to the garden. He would return at midday for lunch, and then leave her again while he manned the stall during the afternoon. The evenings were spent in tending the garden and only then would Jack allow himself to spend time with his friends.

Every day was spent in the same way. It was a hard life, but like his mother, Jack was content. It was not in his nature to rail against the injustice that had dealt him poverty or hard labour. Even this new worry could not completely unbalance his good temper.

With a wheelbarrow full of produce, he made his way through the village to the market square, giving and returning greetings as he went. It did not take long to set up his stall, and soon he was busily employed along with everybody else there: buying and selling, haggling prices, cheerfully exchanging gossip with the other stall-holders.

Eventually, it got to a point at mid-afternoon when the morning and lunch time rushes were over and things were calm enough for all stall-holders to sit down and relax for a bit, enjoying one another's company. The stall opposite Jack's was run by old Grace Lea and sometimes her daughter, and Jack was on fairly good terms with the older woman. She was there today, sitting in a chair and carding some wool. She was always busy, no matter what she was doing, though she was well into her seventies and many women her age would have retired to a comfortable life in bed.

"All right, lad?" she called, and Jack waved and came over for a brief exchange.

"Afternoon, Mrs Lea," he said politely. "How is business today?"

"Not bad, not bad," she said. "Sit down, boy. And I've told you to call me Grace a hundred times." Grace Lea was not one to mince her words.

"Thank you," said Jack, accepting a cup of her delicious homemade mint tea, cool and refreshing. "How's Bridget?" Her daughter was a teacher at the little village school, and it was no secret that their relationship was somewhat strained. Jack had never been quite certain of the details and was not one to search out gossip, but he had an idea it dated back to when Bridget's daughter – who had been born out of wedlock, something that had scandalised the village – had died from some childhood illness. Gossip aside, everyone agreed that there was something not quite right about Bridget. She had been a bright girl, but after her daughter's death something odd had happened to her. She had a habit of staring into space when you were talking to her, and of refusing to answer even the most harmless questions, which was disconcerting, to say the least. Jack had once come face to face with her at a midsummer party and tried to engage her in friendly conversation, only to realise with horror that she had begun to cry. After that, he'd done his best to maintain a polite distance.

"Bridget is Bridget and always will be," she replied briskly. "But she is well, thank you. And how is poor Anne?"

"She is…" He tried to find a word that wasn't a lie, but didn't sound too depressing. "She is, well…"

"I understand," nodded Grace. "Poor, poor Anne. How did the broth go down that I sent round last week?"

"Oh, very well, thank you," he answered gratefully. "It did seem to ease the pain a little, and she slept very well that night."

"Good. I'll make up another batch and send it round," she decided, and waved away his thanks. "It's the best I can do. I was fairly close to your grandmother, you know. Right, off you go, lad. You've got better things to do than to gossip with an old woman."

"You're not old," protested Jack with a grin, but he got up and was crossing the road when a thought struck him and he turned round. "Mrs Lea – Grace – have you had any problems in your garden?"

"What's that, boy?" She looked up at him sharply and he found himself thinking _no wonder Bridget Lea is a frightened mouse with a mother like that_. "In the garden? You've seen it too?"

"It?" Was it as he'd suspected, then – some kind of disease?

"Vegetables rotting in the good earth. Fruit falling apart before it's ripened. Is that what you've had?"

He nodded, sudden fear sending a cold shiver over his skin. Grace's face was serious. "If you've got it too, boy, things are worse than I thought. Try not to worry about it too much for now, but take this." She held out a little paper bag, twisted shut. "It won't reverse the effects, but it can prevent the sickness getting hold if you mix it into the plants' water."

He took the little bag gingerly, unsure of whether he wanted to use it, and thanked her. She nodded and went back to her carding, but she was frowning now, and when he returned to his own stall he couldn't shake the sense of foreboding.

Something, he was sure, was wrong.

**Sorry that these last two have been pretty boring - I promise the action will start at some point :) **


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for reviews! I'm sorry that this story is slow: I'm ridiculously busy at the moment, but I will keep updating at intervals I promise... **

Liath touched the petals one last time, gently, and stepped back, well pleased with her work.

It was only a daisy, but seeing it whole and pretty once more gave her an odd sense of happiness. It had been crushed by a careless foot, belonging to a heavy-stepper no doubt, and its air of helplessness had caused a dull anguish somewhere in the region of her chest. Now it was standing erect once more, its pretty starred petals bravely upturned to the sky.

"Liath!" called one of her sisters, and with one last look at the daisy, she tripped lightly to her side. It was her favourite sister, Seren, who had hair so black it was almost blue and golden eyes. "Come, Liath, we're going to the green." Her unearthly eyes glimmered with mischief. "What have you been doing?"

"Nothing," said Liath quickly. Fairies did not have secrets from each other – the concept was alien to them: but for some reason she could not have explained if she'd wanted to, her obsession with flowers was one she did not want to discuss. It was something different, something that set her apart from her sisters, and recently signs of this kind had begun to appear with alarming frequency. "Do we have to go?"

She would have bitten the words back if she could, but it was too late. Seren, who was usually so absentminded that she usually appeared as a blur, suddenly became sharp and focused. Even her fly-away hair stilled for a moment and revealed her features. Liath automatically blurred her own features slightly in self-defence. "What is wrong with you, Liath? You've been behaving very… oddly lately. You love going to the green."

Around them, in the shadowed trees that surrounded the meadow, Liath sensed her guardians suddenly on the alert. They had seen it too, she knew they had. Of late, their ominous presence was more pressing than ever, a tension at the back of her mind. She kept trying to dismiss it, but when even carefree Seren had noticed something then it was time she came to terms with the fact that _something_ within her was not right.

All the same, she was not going to admit it. She tossed her long gossamer hair teasingly and flickered to a tree branch on the other side of the meadow. "Nothing is wrong," she called quietly, her voice floating through the air as if on a gentle breeze.

Seren immediately flickered beside her. "Nothing?" She was still in focus. It was almost frightening. Liath couldn't remember the last time she'd been able to see her sister's freckles.

"Just some midsummer madness," she returned. "Catch me if you can!"

It was all it took to distract Seren. She blurred and darted forwards, her misty hand only just missing Liath's wrist. Liath hovered air-borne directly behind her, giggling as Seren flickered in and out of view trying to catch her. As they raced through the forest with screams of laughter – now almost touching, now so far apart that they could only just sense each other's presence – Liath realised, with a sense of relief, that the guardians had relaxed once more. Even the thought could arouse their suspicions, however, so she threw herself into the chasing game until they reached the place in question. It was a large space in the centre of a village, where the humans often gathered at the end of a day to play games or to sit together. Sometimes there were dances there, too, which Liath secretly rather enjoyed watching.

Their other sisters were waiting for them, sitting in the top of a lilac tree and watching the people around them. Going to the green was one of their favourite pastimes, though Liath's guardians disapproved if she went too often. It was an excellent chance to cause some trouble – for there was nothing the fairies enjoy more than causing trouble for mortals. And, of course, there was the added edge of the risk of being seen. Though their invisibility was more or less assured by their very nature, occasionally there were some humans who were perceptive enough to pierce the veils between fairy kingdom and the mortal world and see the fairies even when they chose otherwise.

They spent an enjoyable evening playing their usual tricks: pulling people's hair, causing them to trip, calling names, whisking clothes around as if in a breeze, and so on. Harmless enough games, but hugely entertaining to a fairy. To their perception, the humans were slow and stupid. It was fun to see their confusion when a fairy tweaked their nose or whispered their name in their ear.

Liath joined in with as much enthusiasm as the rest of them. Mischief was, after all, the chief pleasure in a fairy's life. And there was something very satisfying about having the power to confound whoever she chose to tease. There was a group of children at the edge of the pond who were floating various 'boats' on the water, much to their delight. Liath dipped closer to have a look. Most of them were hastily constructed out of straw or sticks, or even leaves, but one was a little carved wooden ship that floated beautifully. It seemed to belong to one freckled, rather unattractive little boy who was crowing about how wonderful it was compared to the other children's 'rubbish'. One of them protested, saying that hers floated just as well, and the boy made a nasty face and pushed her over; she promptly burst into tears. Liath, cross with the bully, executed a swift revenge by pulling his boat out to the very middle of the pond and piling stones into it until it sank, and then laughed till she was breathless at the consternation on the boy's unattractive countenance.

"Liath! Come and look," giggled Seren, appearing behind her. "Just look how funny they look." Liath glanced over to where her sister was pointing.

Sitting on the grass under a tree were two mortals, a boy and a girl. He had his arm around her and she was leaning back against his shoulder with her eyes half-closed. Seren laughed again. "See how silly they are? Come on, let's go and drop acorns on their heads."

Liath almost said yes, but something held her back. They were both plain and ordinary-looking; the girl had very thick, very red hair and freckles to go with it and the boy had a rather large nose, but these small defects were unnoticeable compared to the utter happiness shining from both their faces. They were so comfortable with each other; the boy's hand gently tracing patterns on her arm, her head resting in total trust against his neck. As Liath watched, the words she'd been about to say caught in her throat, he murmured a comment to her and she flushed and smiled, a slow deep smile that made something go funny somewhere in Liath's middle.

"Liath?" Seren had noticed her silence again. "Why are you staring like that?"

Liath made herself laugh lightly. "You're right, they look ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as that boy over there trying to stand on one leg. If we just gave him one good push – "

"You're right!" she whooped, the boy and girl already forgotten, and she flickered over to the poor child Liath had pointed to. Liath should have followed, but just for one short moment she continued to stare at the couple, sudden questions flowering in her mind as they never had before. Why were they so happy? They were mortals – slow, greedy, heavy things that couldn't dance lightly along a breeze or drink deeply of honeysuckle-flavoured dew. What was it that had given them that glow of contentment? Why was there this queer ache inside her? Why did she suddenly feel as though there was a wall of glass between her and them, and that no matter how hard she tried she'd never be able to pass through it?

She looked down at her hands as if they would provide her with the answers she sought, and saw with a vague sense of surprise that they were more solid than she'd ever seen them; suddenly she was aware of a feeling of heaviness throughout her entire body, as if she was being pulled down towards the ground. In panic, she glanced around at her sisters: none of them had noticed the change, but her guardians moved a little closer. A feeling she'd never known broke over her head. She felt as if her chest was constricting, growing ever tighter, making her lightheaded and dizzy. Right at that moment she would have given anything to flicker out into the middle of an ocean somewhere and just be in the middle of all that space, but when she tried, something went wrong and somehow she didn't go half as far as she'd intended. Instead, she found herself only a few hundred yards away from her previous location, in the midst of the woods surrounding the village.

Something very strange was happening to her. For the first time since she could remember, the ground had a hold on her, just as it did for humans. It pulled her down to her knees and she pushed against it in terror, trying to float up into the air as usual, and whimpering when she realised that it wasn't working. Only the rational side of her brain, one that she'd barely known existed, stopped her from descending into complete panic. Her guardians had yet to find her: she had a few seconds to pull herself together. Feeling her limbs shake with the unaccustomed heaviness of gravity, she managed to get to one knee; crouched in this cramped position she looked up desperately, afraid that one of her sisters would see her.

"Are you all right?"

The voice made her jump and it felt as though her whole body was exploding through her skin with shock. Fear – an emotion she'd never felt before – zigzagged all over her body like electric currents. She raised her eyes, and saw him.

A human.

A human was looking at her.

A human could _see_ her.

She whimpered again and tried to blur herself, but nothing happened.

He was bending forward with a look in his eyes that later she would learn was concern. It was alien to her, this kindness. She had always been taught that humans were to be feared, even in their stupidity. Humans ruined everything. They broke cobwebs and destroyed the fragile natural habitat of fairykind. But this one did not have a threatening aspect. Her terrified gaze took in his brown hair, flopping down over his forehead, and a forehead creased with that unfamiliar concern. But his eyes – there she stuck. Why did his eyes make her feel like that? They were a colour far too bright for a fairy: blue-green, vivid, though one had a slight brown smudge as if by mistake. His lashes were almost too long for a boy's. Altogether they were the most beautiful eyes Liath had ever seen.

In that moment when she was frozen, he offered her a hand, and she cringed away from it. Suppose he was going to hit her? To break her? Wasn't that was humans did?

But he only took hold of her hand and pulled her to her feet. He was far taller than she'd realised; even standing at her full height, she was only up to his shoulder. "Are you hurt? Is something wrong?"

It took her a second to realise that he was speaking again; his voice went right through her, warm and comforting. Quickly, frightened, she shook her head in one sharp motion. His eyebrows pulled together. "Are you sure?"

Nod. Her guardians were back – she could feel them at the fringes of her vision, and their surprise and anger at this new development. She had to get back. To her astonishment, the boy seemed to feel something too; he glanced round uneasily, apparently sensing the change in the atmosphere. She seized her advantage and ran on feet that were finally becoming lighter. When she was at the edge of the clearing, she hesitated for just a second and turned round. He had turned his head just in time to catch her, and those eyes pierced her.

Swiftly, before another strange fit could take hold of her, Liath blurred herself out of his view and flickered back to where her mother would be waiting.


End file.
